


221B Borrower Street

by surrenderdammit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Borrowers - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Pocket!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderdammit/pseuds/surrenderdammit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble collection. BBC Sherlock/The Borrowers. Borrower John Watson has had an eventful life, at least that's what he thought, until he moved into 221B Baker Street. Borrower!John and Human!Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Story of John

**Author's Note:**

> I have not read the books of The Borrowers series, only seen some film adaptions, so there are bound to be faults. English isn't my first language either :)
> 
> This is going to be a collection of connected drabbles following borrower!John and human!Sherlock; just a bit of silliness. It started out as a sort of comic over at my deviantart, then I decided to put it up as a more proper story. Let's see how it goes :)
> 
> Oh and I want to thank my dear friend EclecticRegard (Shizuka-Ame) for kindly proof-reading my sloppy work to correct the most glaringly obvious typos :)

John H. Watson considered himself quite a decent Borrower. He knew his way around humans, only borrowed that which would not be missed, and never from any human who would suffer the absence of whatever he got away with. He even did, on occasion, help the humans he cohabited with. Or, that is to say, the humans he  _had_  cohabited with. He was between humans at the moment.

He had begun with an old lady, pushing her eighties, in the Scottish countryside. Born into the family of Watson burrowers, John had his mother – a petite, blonde and sensible, mild-tempered woman. Then there was his father, a sturdy red-head with the Scottish temperament to match, and his boyish sister Harriet (or Harry, as she had insisted for as long as he could remember), with whom he never seemed to be able to get along with. The Watson children were a curious mix of mother and father; John had his mother's sense and intelligence, but was quite unfortunately cursed with his father's temperament, something he tried very hard to keep under wraps. Harry, however, did not bother to try. She was strawberry blonde (where he was all sand and earth and beige), hot-headed and stubborn (pig-headed, their mother said; John learned at an early age to match his sister in this, or be run over). She was the first one to leave, as their parents had left before them, for a new world.

The wild backpacking, from home to home, followed by heartbreaks and alcohol and marriage, divorce, and depression, felt like it all happened at once, but was truly over a number of years. John suspected his own sense of time got rather muddled once he left shortly after, heading for the grand Edinburgh (a young human woman, small apartment, too many cats) before almost immediately making his way to London to shack up with the hard-working, if slightly dull, med-student Mike Stamford. He pursued medical textbooks with keen interest, and it became a rather enjoyable sport to try and get around undetected in University and Hospital for further explorations when his curiosity demanded it (operations were fascinating, if a bit daunting for the amount of blood humans seemed capable of containing).

However, the time came to move on. He had yet to find a place where he could truly settle down (settling down was for families, kids, security, plans, of which he had neither). For a few years he found himself dragged down to Under London, a maze of Undergrounds and sewers which attracted all kinds of things. There were whole establishments of rouge borrowers and the occasional mixed groups of humans and borrowers in equal quantities. It had started out with the rumor which had brought him there  _('we can live together, there's a proper network of us there, our own London in the making'),_  where he then found himself just as fascinated as scared out of his mind. It was a storm brewing, and he found himself thinking _'this is war'_ , like on the telly, on the History Channel and the news. He barely got out of there alive.

What followed was a desperate search for quiet, away from London but not too far; he couldn't. Too much was a part of him now. So there was another old lady – they were the easiest, the best for quiet and security, just what his wounded body and mind needed – and a few months of  _nothing._  Other than Ella, the borrower woman who liked to listen and help (a bit too much), and her husband, Joseph, who had lived there three years already before his arrival.

But peace and quiet never lasted long. It seemed he was destined to be on the move, to always head forward onto the next phase in life, whatever that might be and whatever it might bring him.

And so this is John H. Watson. Having been forced to find a new home yet again, as the latest one had been flattened to the ground in favor of a new road, he has relocated. The new one is a small bachelor flat, with another one of those nice human tea ladies who always makes too many biscuits, and a young human man who keeps the flat wonderfully messy. This suits John's purposes perfectly, because surely no one would be surprised if a few things went missing around here, right? Not with the state it was in ever since the man moved in, anyway.

John had come across him as he'd gone back to St. Bart's for some familiar scenery, following the slightly rounder back of Stamford in hopes to find a place to stay. A trip in the man's pocket (risky, but humans moved around so much quicker with their longer legs) took him to an unfamiliar lab (so much had changed) and what turned out to be his new flatmate. The conversation had been a bit one-sided for Stamford, but John had gotten the gist of it. Sherlock, as the man was called, had his eye on a flat, the  _perfect_ flat. He had not been able to find a flatmate yet, no, but he was willing to explore other resources for the sake of getting this flat (the man had pulled a sour face at this; John wondered what those resources were, but figured the flat must indeed be rather spectacular if the man was willing to go to some extra lengths to get it).

He had been unable to switch transport, so to speak, without risking being seen, and so had instead memorized the address mentioned and resolved to make his way there as soon as possible (Sherlock seemed to have keen eyes; he had loudly observed a lighter in Stamford's pocket, which was true, only it was in the other pocket. He thanked whatever force was out there that Stamford hadn't thought to check, only chuckled guiltily and said he was trying to quit).

Now he was well on his way to settling in, having made himself quite at home in the walls and behind and under the furniture and floorboards of 221B Baker Street (or Borrower Street, as he put on a little sign on the entrance he'd made himself for the space he'd claimed his own). Sockets became doors at discrete places, he carved himself some holes in the wall too, loose wallpaper protecting the entrances and exits. Within two weeks his home was built (bits of fabrics, like socks, became curtains and carpets and towels; pieces of wood from inside the walls made up furniture, and cups and thumbnails were put to good use) and he now had time to start building up a storage of food and other necessities as well, so he would not need to venture out as often. An important rule: never spend too much time in sight. It does you nothing but harm to be detected, with nowhere to run.

Which perhaps should've prevented him from landing himself in a situation like this, had he remembered those keen eyes and not let himself be lulled into a sense of security in the mess his newest human was prone to leave in his wake. As it was, however, John was very much detected, and very much without a place to  _run_.

"So this is where everything is disappearing to! Fantastic!"

"Bullocks…!"


	2. A Thousand Christmases

Of course Sherlock would notice anything missing, and since he never misplaces  _anything_  and there are no signs of robbery beyond strange mouse-sized trails (not human, not the usual rodents, then what?)… Sherlock is beyond fascinated. Cubes of sugar, teabags, and Mrs. Hudson's delightful biscuits (unforgivable!) all but disappear into thin air. Pages from the few medical books he owns are crooked, some torn. A pencil from IKEA (small, useless) and several leaves of post-it notes, a cup and a thumbnail (why did he have one of those?)... all nowhere to be found. His syringe (injectable cocaine - old, it's been months, almost a year - unused but still potentially useful) sabotaged, and odd socks under his bed all but swallowed up by the floor.

Someone, or something, was stealing things from under his nose. Things he wouldn't miss, had he not been who he was. He was sure enough with himself to know, without question, that he was  _right._  Something was  _wrong_.

It was more exciting than the dull double suicide the police seemed to think was homicide, or the hit-and-run on some high-profile politician. Dull, dull,  _dull_.

No, this was different. Very different.

And so one day, having located most of the hollows in the walls and discerned possible entrances to fit the approximate size of the being who left such small fingerprints (impossible, but so clear under his loupe he could not deny it), Sherlock secured his flat accordingly. All but once possible entrance had been innocently blocked, leaving one socket in his bedroom (which had been tampered with; screws undone for easy removal). He then settled back to wait.

Three days later, the faint noise of metal against metal reached his ears. Had he not been waiting for it, it would not have concerned him enough to acknowledge. As it was, Sherlock quietly rose from his bed, slipping a roll of tape out of his pocket, and carefully secured the socket (more dust had been removed, it was slightly wonky; it had been moved recently, perhaps 10 minutes ago. Whatever it was, was silent. Deadly so; he had been awake the whole time and noticed nothing). Lying back down on the bed, he waited, again.

A noise which could've been a quiet creak in the old building alerted him 7 minutes later. In a fluid motion, he had rolled up out of bed and snatched a hold the the gleaming metal of a teaspoon. A surprised squeak was heard and as he brought the spoon up for inspection he found….a tiny man holding on for his life (most probably shocked into strengthening his hold of the spoon when grabbed, and now the grip continued because for someone that size, letting go so far above the floor would indeed be unwise).

"So this is where everything is disappearing to! Fantastic!" he exclaimed. A heartfelt "Bullocks…!" was his only reply.

_Oh, this is like a thousand Christmases!_


	3. Pocketed

"You're not going to tell anyone?"

"Why would I do that? Dull. They wouldn't understand. Besides, it's more  _fun_  this way!"

"Erm, oh. Okay. No, wait, why?"

"You're perfect travel size! I can carry you around in my pocket! I can take you with me to work!"

"Erm, I'd rather not, actually…."

"Nonsense. Being that size, you can't have been able to see much of the world, can you?"

"Actually, I'm originally from Scotland, I've travelled quite a bi—-"

"—-in the boot of some car, probably, hoping for the best. From there I imagine sewers, sidewalks. Dull! Boring! Too close to the ground, not enough views! We're going out!"

"Sherlock!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they're off! :D
> 
> As of 2013, I'm leaving this story as it is.

**Author's Note:**

> I already warned you guys I know next to nothing about the Borrowers beyond a few films, so yeah, sorry about that. I had someone tell me this was shit over at FFNet despite the warning so I'm repeating myself just in case. No need to flame, right?
> 
> Anyway, hope someone enjoyed! :)


End file.
